


Gonna Have You Trembling

by JakkuCrew (fromstars)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Adrenaline, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complicated Relationships, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Inappropriate Use of the Force, M/M, Redeemed Ben Solo, The Last Jedi ended differently, Trust Issues, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23058985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromstars/pseuds/JakkuCrew
Summary: Not for the first time, Poe thinks he should have shoved Ben Solo off the edge of a flight dock.The mission would have been much easier without him.It also wouldn’t have detoured into a dingy prison cell in the armpit of Nar Shaddaa, with Ben on the wrong side of the bars.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29
Collections: The Kylo|Ben x Poe Fanworks Exchange 2020





	Gonna Have You Trembling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucymonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/gifts).



> Prompt at the end of the work. Yes, I listened to MIA's Bad Girls on repeat endlessly for this. I hope you enjoy!

Not for the first time, Poe thinks he should have shoved Ben Solo off the edge of a flight dock. 

The mission would have been much easier without him. 

It also wouldn’t have detoured into a dingy prison cell in the armpit of Nar Shaddaa, with Ben on the wrong side of the bars. 

“I told you,” Poe says with a roll of his eyes, “— I should have been the one entering the Nar Shaddaa Kentiev race.” 

“You don’t speak any Huttese,” Ben replies. He looks worse for the wear, Poe thinks, but with all his limbs still intact. It’s definitely a better outcome than it could have been, all things considered. The fact that nothing looks truly mangled from where Poe’s standing is probably a good sign that their cover wasn’t blown, and that no one yet knows they’re here under the orders of General Leia Organa. Poe can’t imagine that the Hutts would have dumped Ben into this particular cell block if they knew who either of his parents were, or who Ben himself had been. 

It’s a shoddy prison meant for small gambling debts and petty crimes - like winning a rigged race - not for sworn enemies of the crime families. The cell is narrow, damp, and barely lit, and it makes Ben look comically big. The light in Poe’s hand is dim, but he can still see the purpling bruise surrounding Ben’s eye. It balances out the scar on the other side of his face nicely. For all his return to the light is worth, Poe sees a man still used relying on shadows. 

“You don’t need to speak Huttese to fly,” Poe retorts, before tucking his flashlight under his arm. It’s a pointless argument, one they had the entire way to Nar Shadda. Ben doesn’t dignify his answer with a response, choosing instead to glare coldly at Poe. Poe ignores him, rifling through his pocket for his kit. It takes him a moment, but he eventually finds the cannisters holding his key pass codebreakers. Poe fumbles them, weighing each one in his hand before inspecting the prison lock for a possible match. He’s broken into and out of Hutt-owned prisons before, and he’s feeling grateful that this particular cell seems to be the kind designed for buying your way out of. It means he has a greater chance of having a generic key cylinder that will work to slice the doors. 

Ben sighs. 

“Would you shut up?” Poe grinds out. “I am trying to make sure I have the right one.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” Ben says, looking less and less impressed. “You’re taking too long.”

“I’m making sure this stupid cell isn’t rigged to blow both of us up if I use the wrong code break key,” Poe snaps, twisting one of the cylinders. 

“You’re joking,” Ben says, standing up to press closer to the prison cell bars. They’re old-fashioned — real metal, and not just energy beams — so Poe has every reason to think there’s some kind of secondary safety measure to protect against just melting the stupid things. Poe raises a brow at Ben pointedly in response.

Ben swears. “Have you even done this before?” 

“Yes,” Poe looks up from the cylinders in his hands. His armpit is going numb from squeezing the flashlight as he works, and the general stench of the prison is giving him a pounding headache. Poe huffs, then fists the cylinders and grabs his flashlight out from under his arm. He pushes it towards Ben’s face from the other side of the bars and enjoys the annoyed flinch back Ben makes in response. “Do something useful and hold this,” he says. Ben snatches it from his hand. 

“I would have finished slicing this by now.” Ben says, pointing the flashlight towards the access slot. Poe sets down the key cylinders he knows he won’t be using, and kneels to get a better look at the inside of the panel. He gets to work, letting the cylinder rotate in place as it begins to slice the lock. Ben waves the flashlight impatiently, but Poe ignores him and the bouncing light. He doesn’t need to do much else, eventually the doors should unlock, but if the panel starts acting funny, Poe thinks he might be able to get out of the blast zone if he runs. Zorii used to make him watch whenever she sliced a door - clicking was usually good, rattling meant run, and smoke from the machinery meant they were as good as dead. It’s less satisfying than hotwiring, but he can do it himself in a pinch. 

“Well, you wouldn’t have needed to,” Poe says casually, watching the cylinder click one rotation left, then one rotation right. “Because I wouldn’t have gotten arrested in the first place.” 

“The only reason I got arrested is because if I had used the force, I would’ve blown our cover,” Ben retorts. 

“So what you’re saying is, without the force, you’re useless.” Poe’s pretty sure that isn’t actually true — Ben seems like he’d be a good shot, and he’s definitely a great pilot, but it’s satisfying to say as the lock clicks. 

“I wonder what that says about you,” Ben replies, dropping the flashlight from his hand. It doesn’t hit the ground. Instead, it floats in midair as the cell door slides open. It takes Ben a moment to gain his balance, and Poe fights the uneasy feeling that if they need to run, they won’t be able to. Ben takes another step, then straightens up in the hall. He looks pained, but then his jaw sets and his expression isn’t any different from how imperious he normally looks. It’s enough to make Poe feel peeved with him all over again. 

“It says I’m not the one who needed a jailbreak for cheating in a race,” Poe shrugs. He snatches the flashlight from the air with an annoyed yank, and turns towards their exit. Getting in was easier than he thought it would be, but that doesn’t ease his mind any. 

“The race was rigged,” Ben answers. 

“They’re always rigged,” Poe says, yanking the cylinder from the cell door panel. _“And_ you cheated.” 

* * *

  
Fifteen minutes later, they had slipped out of the small prison, and broken their way into the back door of a speeder garage. 

Poe bites back the urge to ask Ben if the guards he took care of on the way out of the prison are dead, or just unconscious. He’s not sure which answer he prefers, but either way someone is bound to notice eventually. Prison escapes on Nar Shaddaa warrant a small bounty, and Poe doesn’t want to think about the odds of whether or not someone would be able to recognize the former Kylo Ren on sight. He focuses instead on the fact that the trick will come in useful if they run into anyone in the closed garage other than the snoring Rodian man tucked behind the register’s transparisteel security window. The longer they can go without witnesses, the better chance they have of surviving the smuggler’s moon and getting the transit data medallions they came for off-world and into the hands of the Resistance. Access to two major abandoned Imperial distribution centers — and hundreds of ships and fuel cells ripe for liberating — depends on it. 

“Cover me,” Poe murmurs, shoving a blaster into Ben’s hands. There’s a few speeder-cars idle in the garage, but with a quick glance he knows the speeder-bike will be their best option. It’s a Corellian Needletail V-15, and all he needs is enough time to jump it and override the power distributor cap to get them on the other side of Nar Shaddaa. 

“Give me back my saber,” Ben hisses, stalking after Poe as they wind their way through a tower of tool cabinets towards the speeders. “Then maybe I’ll cover you.” 

“Can’t,” Poe says, waving a hand to shush Ben. “It’s at the bottom of my bag, and the last thing I need is for you to blow our cover by waving that thing around. Shut up and cover me.”

“You’re insufferable,” Ben says, but he cocks the blaster and scans the inside of the garage. “I want my saber back as soon as we get out out of here.” 

Poe is pretty sure Ben’s switched the stun setting off. He might normally object, but he knows for a fact that this garage is funded by the Fenlon gang, and they still dabble in the slave trade. As does most of the planet. A few blaster burns won’t make up for that fact, but he also won’t feel terribly sorry about it. 

Poe squeezes past Ben and taps the data pad beside the Corellian Needletail, frowning as he looks over the readings on the machine. It’s scheduled to be picked up by its owner tomorrow morning, and it looks like it was only in for a tune-up, but there’s a unique compressor lock on the thing, which is not ideal. Poe sighs. He drops to his knees and settles himself on the wheeled creeper to start working. 

“You’re joking. Why didn’t you pick the Tyrax-III?” Ben says as Poe slides beneath the Needletail’s underbelly. He crouches down by Poe’s knees, and Poe doesn’t have to twist around to know that Ben is giving him an exasperated look. “There’s more room on the Tyrax, and we’d blend right in.” 

“Because I hate flying them,” Poe snaps, before he bites the end of a loose wire to keep from losing it. “Hand me the spanner,” he mumbles. He’s not going to leave on this thing before he removes the compressor lock. 

“I thought you could fly anything,” Ben dryly notes, shoving the spanner under the speeder towards Poe’s face. Poe glares at it — the thing only narrowly misses colliding with his nose — and then he snatches it from Ben. The compressor lock falls into his hand after a moment of adjustments and he sets it aside without a second thought. 

“Of course I can fly anything. That doesn’t mean I want to fly a speeder car meant for laserbrains who can’t tell the difference between a kriffing energy modulator and a real nacelle booster.” Poe says under his breath, spitting the wire he’d held in his teeth out into his hand. “If I’m going to steal a speeder, it’s going to be one that’s actually worth something.”

“How noble of you,” Ben says, dodging the spanner Poe tosses back out from under the speeder. He kicks a cell link under the speeder for Poe, letting it skitter across the floor. Poe winces as it hits the side of the creeper with a clang. From under the speeder, he gives Ben a sharp look. There’s a good chance the sleeping guard is also drunk, but he’d rather not risk the noise. 

Ben looks unperturbed. “The Resistance’s golden boy commandeering the most valuable bike in the shop because he likes it better. You know you could’ve just added the nacelle booster to the Tyrax. Re-route the pressure valve and switch out the mass damper for the KT-20 model. The standard model is too rigid a counter-weight.” 

“Torque—,” Poe demands, holding out a hand. Ben presses it into his palms. “—That would take longer. I’m not here to play upgrades mechanic.” Poe says with a huff. 

“But you clearly know how to hotwire them.” Ben says, and Poe wrenches the bolts of the engine back into place. He sets the compressor lock aside, before replacing the Engine panel and sliding out from under the speeder. “And here I thought you were a good guy,” Ben drawls, leaning against the side of the bike with a smirk. It strikes Poe that Ben has long since stopped watching the security guard, and is instead watching him intently. Ben idly cards a hand through his hair, looking more relaxed than Poe’s ever seen him. 

“Surprise,” Poe says, wiping a slick of oil off of his arm. He pushes himself to his feet, and adjusts his belt pack. “I was a pilot for the Kijimi spice runners when I was a teenager.” 

“Of _course_ you were,” Ben says, and for a brief moment Poe isn’t sure if he sounds delighted, annoyed, or vindicated. Ben’s gaze is heated and intense — and Poe is pretty sure he’s stood up too quickly after laying on the creeper. The garage is stuffy, and he feels lightheaded for a second before he looks away from Ben and wills his pulse to even back out. He knows that more than anything, his own equilibrium is important if he’s going to be flying. 

“You don’t sound shocked,” Poe manages, turning to release the platform’s lock on the speeder bike. 

“I’m not.” Ben snorts. “It makes too much sense.”

“—Just get on the bike,” Poe directs. Poe swings a leg over the smooth body of the speeder, settling in easily. He shoots Ben a look, and then tips his chin, gesturing for Ben to hurry up. It takes Ben another moment before he sidles in behind Poe, and there's a pause that makes Poe feel twitchy, like something could go sideways at any moment. It’s a tight arrangement with both of them in the seat, but Poe’s dealt with worse before. 

"I don't care how strong you think your thighs are," Poe says quietly, flicking on the speeder with a twist of his hand, relishing its low purr, "–You're going to want to hold on." 

"And here I thought you'd want me to fall off," Ben says, his warm breath tickling the back of Poe's neck. And then, Ben presses in and settles his hands at Poe's hips. It's strange – they've never really touched before, not like this.

Poe looks down only for a moment, but a few realizations scratch the back of his mind. One of Ben's hands is gloveless; his knuckles are freshly scraped and bloodied. It's stark in contrast to the glove on his other hand. A gash moves up his wrist, and Ben's hand is big enough that his fingers span down to Poe's thigh. On the other side of him, Ben presses the blaster up against Poe's side, his finger still ready beside the trigger. It's insane to trust him, to keep trusting him, but it makes Poe feel like he's the one who’s been hotwired. If he has to have someone at his back, there's something electrifying about having it be someone that even other monsters are afraid of. 

Poe leans forwards, licking his lips. "Shoot the garage panel, then shoot at the snoring guy behind the transparisteel. The system will override and the garage door will open. Then keep an eye out for security drones."

Ben makes a throaty sound that Poe thinks is a chuckle. "I'll do you one better," he says, before raising his ungloved hand. Poe allows himself only a second to watch the flex of Ben's long fingers before the realization of what idiotic force trick is coming next hits him. 

Everything happens at once. 

Ben twists his hand, and Poe revs the engine of the speeder in one fluid motion. The door of the garage crumples violently, and it blasts forwards with a roaring scream of metal as Poe accelerates, bursting through their newly made exit. He can feel Ben turn in the seat behind him, his bare hand still firmly pressed to his side as he shoots backwards into the garage. 

There’s a scream - probably the Rodian waking up - and then several more blaster shots aimed at the garage’s other speeders go off. Poe doesn’t look back — doesn’t have to. He knows Ben has dispatched them with brutal accuracy; and won’t examine how he knows that until much later. Klaxons blare behind them in an ear-shattering wail that shakes the street, and security droids begin to pour out into air after them. They turn a corner sharply, and then Poe switches off the repulsor pod limiter before yanking the yoke back, shooting them upwards by several stories. 

Poe whoops, the warm night air threading through his curls as they zip past crowded buildings. The sudden altitude climb muffles the world around him, muting everything that isn’t the speeder-bike between his legs and Ben at his back. 

The world fades away less for Ben. 

“Would you _dodge?”_ Ben yells, elbowing Poe’s side. He reaches around Poe and shoves at the yoke hard enough that they spin out. The ping of a blaster bolt grazes the high gloss chassis of the speeder, and Poe rights them, swatting Ben’s gloved hand away from the controls. 

“You have _one_ job!” Poe fires back. A second bolt buries into a building’s glowing billboard that they narrowly avoid colliding with, and Poe nosedives. A second before they hit street level Poe reverses course, forcing them into a complete vertical incline. The force of the move throws him back into Ben’s chest, his vision blurring. Poe’s stomach drops several stories, but he hears one of the droids crash into the ground before detonating from the impact. 

They level back out, and Poe swallows hard before he finds the air to speak again. “—Shoot _them_ before they shoot _us!”_

There’s an annoyed squeeze at his hip in response, but then Ben begins to rattle off directions to cut them off at the pass. Pass the holonet tower on the left. Poe swerves around another speeder and its driver.

_Four security droids left._

Double back in the tangle of the marketplace alleys. Take the next right and feint left. 

_Three droids._

They fly past a sector divide to another level of the planet’s buildings, then under a series of wire cables criss-crossing a haphazardly built nav-station. Neon lights throw purple, pink, and white-blue shadows over the yoke of the speeder and Poe’s hands in pulsing strobes as they fly. Ben presses into him with a tap of his fingers — _two left._

They tilt sideways and Ben fires off another shot. 

_One left._

A sickening crack pops in Poe’s ears, and he feels Ben’s weight slide away from him, unbalancing the speeder.

A security drone shrieks a block behind them, and Poe wrenches to the side, scrambling to grab at Ben mid-fall. His hand slips past Poe’s and Poe dives further, slamming forwards to angle the speeder into Ben’s fall. A second blaster bolt fires off, narrowly missing Poe as he twists and clutches at Ben’s arm with one hand, his fingers slipping over the exposed gash on Ben’s arm. Ben dangles, and Poe’s arm strains under the pressure of holding on mid-air. They lock eyes, and fear spikes in Poe at the determined gaze in Ben’s gaze, a destructive glint of recklessness that he knows all too well in fellow pilots.

 _Not now, not like this, not here —_  
  
 _“Ben—!”_ Poe screams, tightening his grip as Ben pulls back. 

But instead of falling, Ben drops the blaster in his hand and pulls something invisible through the force harder than any thought he ever ripped from Poe’s mind. The last security droid stutters and then reels catastrophically into a building behind them with an explosive crash. A nearby hyperlane light pops, then goes black. Ben reaches out with his other hand and pulls himself up by Poe’s outstretched arm, giving Poe a raw look that shakes him, sliding past his defenses like a plasma-knife to the ribs. Ben could die for him, Poe realizes, and he’d hate him for it. Another wrong he wouldn’t forgive. 

There’s not enough air to breathe, but no time to stop as Ben straddles the seat of the speeder behind him. He slumps forwards, spreading his hands back out over Poe’s hips. Poe can feel him panting heavily against his neck and the acrid smell of burnt flesh tells Poe that Ben’s been hit. 

“I told you to hang on, idiot,” Poe says with a growl, pushing them further into the sky slums of Nar Shaddaa. They aren’t far from the safe house they set up, but Poe wants to be sure they’ve lost the remainders of their tail. 

Ben laughs thickly in his ear. “I did. I thought you’d be disappointed.” 

“Shut up,” Poe snaps, flying them back down to the streets. 

* * *

They land at the edges of Nar Shaddaa’s Corellian district. 

Poe gets them closer to their safe house than originally intended, pulling them up to an alley a block away from the cramped Pallodian motel room they’d left in the morning. A trio of rib-cats scatter, darting to the shadowy corners of the street as they land. Ben makes a low noise in the back of his throat when Poe sets the speeder’s parking brake. It takes Poe a moment to move; Ben’s weight is pressed against his back heavily. Poe slips off the speeder, evoking a displeased grunt from Ben who braces himself against the yoke’s handles. 

Before Ben manages to push himself off the bike through stubborn will alone, Poe steps up to his side, catching Ben mid-slump. 

“Don’t be a stubborn moon-jockey,” Poe says with a sigh as he puts a hand behind Ben’s back. “—I know you got hit with a blaster shot from one of those stupid droids.” 

Ben gives him a sour look, but fights back less than he might’ve otherwise. “You noticed?” he says dryly. 

“Kind of embarrassing, isn’t it? I’ve seen you stop those things mid-air before,” Poe remarks, before he ducks under Ben’s arm, steadying him on his shoulders. Ben shudders as he moves, and Poe wedges his weight under Ben, controlling his transition to the ground. 

“A bolt that you fired, if memory serves,” Ben manages through a grimace. “And now, payback. I didn’t move it fast enough.” There’s no venom in the words, and all Poe can think is that it’s good he’s still griping and sniping. When Ben’s boots hit the ground, Poe bows forwards, and they sway for a moment before they regain their balance. Poe huffs. 

“Yeah, yeah. You weren’t a civilian, I don’t feel sorry for you about that,” Poe replies, half-dragging Ben to the wall of the alleyway where he can prop him back up for inspection.

He’s met with a hiss of pain from Ben as he falls back into the wall. There’s enough light from the buildings all around them that even the alley is overcast in the bright colors of the nearby nightlife. In stark contrast to the gray and black of the building walls, Ben looks too-pale, and there’s a sheen of sweat already on his brow. Poe crowds in to Ben’s space, slipping a knee between Ben’s legs in the hopes that it’ll prevent him from falling over if he blacks out. 

But then, Poe also suspects Ben is too recalcitrant for that. 

Ben’s eyes look almost pitch, and Poe is half tempted to take out his flashlight again and check his pupils. The only thing stopping him is the charred hole in the shoulder of the jacket Ben is wearing. It’s a clean circle burned through the black leather, and it stinks of ozone. The rest of the jacket is abraded and raw, presumably from where the Kentiev racing officials decided to forcibly drag him into a jail cell. Poe pulls the leather away from Ben’s shirt underneath it, and Ben snarls at him as the shirt fabric tugs at skin, some of it melted against the cauterized wound.

Poe swears. 

“Hold still—,” Poe demands, reaching into his travel-pack at his hip. “I need to cut this off.” 

“I like this jacket,” Ben says, churlish. He places a hand at Poe’s hip - to balance himself, Poe figures - and breathes in deep. 

“You’ll like not having an infection more,” Poe promises as he pulls out a plasma knife. “I need to see how deep it is.” The full med kit is back in the room they rented, but for now Poe can press an emergency bacta patch to the wound. Poe balances the weight of the knife in his hands, before he considers the fastest cut before him. With the leather jacket peeled back, he slips the blade through the hole of the leather and cuts away at it from the inside outward. A heavy strip of leather falls to the ground and Poe cuts again, carving out access to the shirt underneath without forcing Ben to rotate his injured shoulder to get his ridiculous jacket off. 

“I’m going to get your shirt too. It’ll be easier to treat that way,” Poe says. When he can see the blaster wound more easily, he stops to re-evaluate, the knife still poised in his hand. A pink circle about the size of the transit medallions they’re going to be smuggling off-world rests just under Ben’s clavicle. It isn’t deep, but it does look painfully burned; blistering in a few angry red marks. It’s only a small relief that Poe doesn’t see bone. They were far enough out from the shot that it seems to have lessened the blow, and Poe figures the security droid’s blasters aren’t meant for serious injury so much as a strong deterrent. 

“It could be worse,” Poe says, finally. He raises the knife in his hand - ready to cut around the wound further - when Ben’s hand wraps around his wrist, pulling both the knife and Poe’s hand close to his chest. Ben’s bare hand is hot to the touch, and Poe can feel the callouses of his ‘saber training worn into his fingertips. It’s maddeningly familiar. 

“Good. Then you don’t need to do that,” Ben says, his words thick. “It doesn’t hurt. I’ll take care of it up in the room,” he adds, rubbing a thumb over the bottom of Poe’s palm. It’s unbalancing — Poe can feel his pulse skip under the heavy pressure of Ben’s fingers clasped around him. Poe opens his mouth to say something acerbic, but stops short when he catches the ravenous look in Ben’s eyes. The blaster shot should hurt him the same as anyone else, but Poe knows too well that adrenaline can numb the pain enough to trick the mind for a little while. 

_“Ben—,”_ Poe starts in a warning. _It will hurt later,_ he thinks, but he already knows it doesn’t matter. They survived, and Poe feels the electricity of it it jumping between them. 

Ben says nothing. Instead, he draws Poe in for a reckless kiss, slipping the knife out of Poe’s hands as he bites at Poe’s bottom lip. Poe fists at the shreds of his jacket, and in the process Ben drops the plasma knife to the ground, forgotten. The kiss deepens, and Poe boxes Ben in against the alley wall, shuddering into the tease of Ben’s tongue in his mouth. There’s a soft scuff of Ben’s jacket up against the rough wall behind him, and Poe crowds in further. _He smells like heat and ashes,_ Poe thinks with a shiver. Not cold or clinical like Kylo Ren, but burning under the surface; burning right through him. Poe can feel the heat coiling low in his belly, need and want blurring together. 

The spell almost breaks when Ben lifts his other, still-gloved hand to Poe’s jaw. Poe’s eyes snap open, and he pulls back roughly, his knuckles pressed perilously close to Ben’s blaster wound as he does so. 

“Don’t—,” Poe nearly snarls, “Don’t touch me with that.” He scrabbles for the glove, doesn’t bother to explain, don’t want to explain himself. Images of the narrow room on the Finalizer crowd his thoughts, and his legs ache from the memory of straps tying him down. He wants his own mind back, wants to blot out his own thoughts. Poe rips the remaining black glove off of Ben’s hand with a vicious tug — he won’t be under that hand again, not now or ever. He isn’t met with any resistance from Ben. 

Poe tosses the glove onto their discarded pile of castoffs. When he turns to look back at Ben, he sees something he can’t quite read in Ben’s eyes. It’s nothing he wants to examine too closely; Ben’s brow is furrowed, and the smudge of bruising around his eye looks softer. 

“I—,” Ben starts. 

Poe shoves him back against the wall. “Do you ever stop talking?” he demands, not waiting for Ben’s answer. The back alley is just chilled enough that Poe wants to pry the warmth from Ben, wants to keep tearing into him. Poe slides a hand under the remnants of Ben’s jacket and kisses him fiercely. He splays his palm over Ben’s waist, dragging blunt nails across the spiderweb of scarring over Ben’s side. A impatient need builds in him, and Poe breaks the kiss only to bite at Ben’s neck roughly. Ben inhales sharply as Poe’s stubble rasps over his skin, and the sound is more addictive than it should be. 

_What would it be like,_ Poe wonders, to make _Ben Solo senseless?_

Ben finally wraps an arm back back around Poe’s waist, fists his other hand into Poe’s dark brown curls. Once he finds himself fitted closer to Poe, he falls back into the thick of things. Poe kisses him again, bruising Ben’s lips, hands still pushing at his shirt. In response, Ben’s hand drops from Poe’s waist to the thick curve of his ass in appreciation, and Poe slots himself further between Ben’s legs.

Ben gives him a firm squeeze and it all but throws Poe into the fire. He rocks forwards, grinding down on Ben’s thigh, needing something, anything to give him some friction. It’s not lost on Poe that they’re both hard; Ben’s erection strains against his dark pants, insistent. Poe wants that too, wants to fist him and take him into his mouth — but not enough to move or stop the taunting rub against Ben’s leg, rutting against his hip just yet. 

When Ben pulls Poe down against him with a rock of his hips, he draws out an indulgent moan from Poe. Ben growls in response, and Poe arches into him, eager for more contact. More than anything, frustration gnaws at his inside, and Poe moves to press open-mouthed kisses to the long column of Ben’s throat as he scrabbles for Ben’s utility belt. It occurs to Poe that there’s nothing he hates more than their holsters as he pulls at the straps, fumbling for the clasps.

Ben doesn’t bother with the same pretense; there’s a soft click, and Poe feels his bandolier slipping off his shoulder, his side pack going with it, the force and gravity peeling them away. Ben tugs it the rest of the way off of Poe with a final yank, the last holster strap around his thigh going slack. A weight lifts from him, and the only pressure left is Ben’s warm fingers roughly pressed into his leg. With his other hand, Ben clumsily struggles to unbutton his slacks, wincing through the twinges of pain in his shoulder. 

“Let me,” Poe murmurs against Ben’s jaw. He palms Ben through the cloth, rubbing his thumb over the head of his dick in a brief tease that makes Ben’s leg tremble between Poe’s thighs. It makes Poe feel like he’s on fire, and he rocks forward into Ben again, knowing damn well he doesn’t need to do much, if any, convincing.

Ben tilts his head in wordless agreement, and Poe shoves his pants down without ceremony, freeing Ben’s cock. 

“Fuck,” Poe breathes. It’s not that he hasn’t seen big before — _he has_ — but Poe can’t help but appreciate the weight and size of Ben. Ben is heavy and warm, the head of his cock dark and flushed, and Poe fights the urge to get on his knees just to get closer. Another time, another person, he might’ve — just to get his tongue around it, and to taste the salt of him. It’s a shame that he won’t right now.

“That’s good,” Poe manages, admiring the way Ben fills his hand, then adds, “—big.” There’s a soft exhale in response to Poe, which Poe thinks is Ben’s attempt at a laugh, but it’s lost as soon as Poe wraps his hand around Ben’s dick and strokes him firmly. Ben’s head tips back against the wall and he shudders bodily. Poe gives him another experimental tug, and then Ben is pulling Poe’s pants down too, peeling away every last layer. 

“Like this,” Ben says hoarsely, and Poe nods, pressing his head against Ben’s good shoulder. Poe removes his hand only long enough to lick a wet stripe over his palm before reaching down to grasp them both. Ben groans in his ear, and Poe pants as Ben’s hand wraps around his and they push into it unsteadily. Poe moves his head to watch Ben’s face better, the flutter of his lashes and the tremble of his mouth as they move faster, Poe’s hand twisting under his. He wonders what it would look like to fuck Ben, who is already flushed and desperate for every touch in a way that he couldn’t have predicted. Ben leaks over his hand, hot pre-cum adding slide to their frantic movements as Poe picks up pace. 

It doesn’t take long — maybe because Ben is already at his limit, or maybe because Poe bites and sucks at his throat as he thrusts against him. Ben’s hips jerk and he moans loudly when he comes, spurting over Poe’s hand and his own. He’s breathless and wrecked, but even shuddering and sensitive, Ben tightens his grip around them both and jerks Poe faster, gasping through the aftershocks. Ben’s other hand grabs at Poe’s ass again, and Ben grips him tightly enough that it almost hurts; anxious to keep him close. The slick of Ben’s come sliding down his shaft and the rough pull of his Ben’s hand is too much, and Poe comes undone, chest heaving as he fucks into Ben’s tight fist and rides his orgasm until the tremble makes his legs unsteady and the heat of it all becomes unbearable. 

Ben jerks him a few more times, not caring that Poe is sensitive or that they’re both going soft, and in response Poe bites him sharply on the collar to warn him that it’s enough. It’s then that Poe accidentally jostles the skin around Ben’s burn and the sharp pain startles Ben into releasing his grip. Ben bites back a hiss of pain, and Poe shifts back, careful to avoid knocking into him again.

He doesn’t apologize, but Ben grunts in response and it seems like enough admission that it he knows it wasn’t intentional. Poe catches his breath, sucking in fresh air as he tries to disentangle himself from Ben slowly. He feels dizzy but alive — bone deep exhaustion creeping into the remaining edges of pleasure. 

Ben gives a careful look at his messy hand, and then quirks a brow at Poe. The world rushes back in, and Poe is left to watch as a rib-cat rubs up against the speeder behind them. He wants to laugh, but he’s not sure if it’s at himself or the situation. 

“Hell,” Poe says. He reaches down for his kit, dangling from the belt and straps that now hang from his calf, and uses one hand to dig through it until he finds a small square cloth meant to help him clean up after shaving. Poe runs it over himself quickly before he gives it to Ben, silent amusement etched into his face as he moves to clean up. 

“The Resistance really is prepared for anything,” Ben notes dryly, quietly observing Poe as he tucks himself back into his trousers and begins re-arranging his belt and holster. Poe digs into his kit further, and retrieves Ben's repaired blue 'saber, fitting his hand just under the cross-guard before he passes it back to Ben wordlessly. Their fingers touch briefly, and Poe suppresses an urge to push Ben back up against the wall again.

“You owe me a new washcloth,” Poe says finally, not bothering to look up as he fiddles with his clothes a little more. “As soon as we get off this awful dump.”

“That’s extreme,” Ben replies, before shoving the washcloth into his pants pocket, and rights himself. “I’ll try something called ‘washing’ it after I bacta this up in the room,” he says, gesturing to his exposed shoulder. 

Poe scoffs. “Just tell me you managed to get the other transit medallion before the race this morning. We have to rendezvous off-world in 11 standard hours, and I would prefer to get some sleep tonight.” 

“Of course I have it,” Ben says, running a hand over Poe’s arm. “—We have enough time to do more than sleep," and Poe thinks for the first time that he's grateful Ben joined him on the mission. 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Besides impulse control issues and their love for Leia, their piloting skills are pretty much the biggest thing these two have in common, right? According to the cross-sections book and the visual dictionary, Kylo Ren's main non-murder hobby seems to be pestering the First Order's engineers (sorry, I mean 'supplying detailed post-flight reports') to improve his custom prototype starfighter's speed and handling. And Poe, as we all know, is the Best Pilot In The Resistance. It's a match made in revhead heaven.
> 
> I'd love to see a redeemed Ben defect to the Resistance (or, post-Exegol, whatever they're calling their clean-up effort) and bond with Poe over their shared love of flying irresponsibly fast. Maybe they get lumped together on a mission or draw each other into some kind of race or pissing contest. Maybe they get accidentally transfixed watching whatever the space version of Fast and the Furious is. Maybe they pool their expertise to acquire black-market engine upgrades for the cause. Testosterone, competence porn and petty one-upmanship all highly encouraged.


End file.
